Beg You to Trust Me (Lindon U #2)
B. Celeste
Trigger Warning: This book deals with bullying, harassment, and heavy topic topics such as assault on college campus.
CHAPTER ONE
SKYLAR
Bad decisions taste like rum, coke, and something metallic. A taste that reminds me of the time my older sisters dared me to see how many quarters I could fit into my mouth at once.
With fluttering eyelids and heavy limbs, I come to with a dry mouth and cloudy head, finding it hard to move in the soft sheets covering my chilled body. Sheets that don’t feel as soft as the expensive certified organic cotton threads covering the twin mattress in my room.
The bed under my lead-like limbs feels too lumpy, nothing like the thick, foam pad covering the school supplied mattress on my raised frame.
One of my sticky eyelids peels open in confusion, vision blurry but able to take in the unfamiliar setup of the room. It’s bigger, colder, and the furniture is nothing like the stuff I have in the double I share with my freshman roommate Rebecca.
It takes a few seconds, but I quickly realize the reality of the situation. Bolting upright, I careen to the side when dizziness slams into me. The black sheet falls down my body, exposing the untied, wrinkled purple wrap shirt I borrowed from my friend Aliyah that’s exposing the peach bra I’d slipped on underneath. I suck in a sharp breath when my eyes go to the empty spot beside me, then slowly to the side and see what’s thrown onto the carpet.
Time stops.
Panic seeps into my ribcage.
I lift the sheet and shakily lower it once I see the naked skin it’s covering, then glance back at the black leggings and panties in the middle of the floor. They’re the only things I’d worn that were mine. The shirt, shoes, and new pushup bra were all from the girls I befriended who insisted I needed to dress up for the party they were dragging me to.
You’ll have fun.
We won’t let you out of our sight.
My recollection of the events beyond letting them play with my stubborn, black-dyed hair and telling me what makeup would look best on my tan skin is fuzzy.
Too fuzzy to put together how I got in a room I don’t recognize with my pants off.
Doing a quick scan to double check that I’m alone, I toss my legs over the side of the bed and wince at the ache between them. I bolt toward my clothing, worried someone will bust in. Tugging the panties up my legs, I stop when I glance down and see the small smears of blood on the inside of my thighs.
I stare.
Not breathing.
Not blinking.
Thud, thud, thud. The drumming between my head and heart is in sync, demanding my attention as I stare at the red smattering my skin.
A moment or two later, I force myself to finish getting changed with shaky hands.
Pressing an ear against the wood to see if I hear anyone outside of it, I quietly turn the knob and creep out of the room with my borrowed black heels tucked in my hands and my heart lodged in the back of my throat.
I cringe at each creak of the floorboards under my bare feet as I tiptoe down the narrow hallway toward the wooden staircase. I don’t know what time it is because my phone is dead, but the sun is out and blinding me, making the headache throbbing inside my temples ten times worse.
As I creep down the steps and toward the front door, I notice that there’s no remnants of a party left. No plastic cups lying around, no food on the carpet, no weird boozy smells that I vaguely remember from the night before. The bits I do recall consist of a packed house that made me feel claustrophobic, loud music that made it impossible to hear what my friends were saying as I followed them into the mass of bodies, and the scent of cheap beer.
I’m almost to the door when I freeze mid-step after hearing, “Who the hell are you?”
My body locks up from the deep voice behind me. I don’t recognize it, not that that says much. I’m not familiar with most men around here since my small circle of peers is made up of my roommate Rebecca and a few other girls—Deanna and Aliyah—I met during orientation a month before.
Footsteps come from somewhere else, stopping close by. A second voice, less deep and more amused, says, “Huh. I thought everyone did their walks of shame already. Sorry, big man.”
I make myself look over my shoulder, but I don’t know why. I’m met with two different faces. One boyish and clearly amused if the mischievous glint in his blue eyes is any indication, and the other full of…nothing. No emotion. Nothing readable. The shorter of the two—though not by much—grins at me before scoping out my body in a once-over that makes me want to make a break for it.
If I were smart, I wouldn’t let them stare and leer. The shorter one cocks his head until his messier blond hair flops over his forehead and lips kick up. He elbows his friend who looks massive and far less enthused of my presence in comparison.
Both are built like athletes. Strong. Broad. Like they could take down another person their size or larger if they wanted to. Deanna said the party was at the football house.
We won’t let you out of our sight, is what Dee promised me.
How did I get separated from them?
“We didn’t know anyone else was here,” the taller, stoic-looking one tells me. His lips press into a firm line as he watches me, eyes narrowing. Accusatory.
I’m uncomfortable.